As I was praying this past week, one thing kept coming to mind: the difference between loss and lost.
People have made the comment, “Oh my, you must feel lost without Matthew.”
I understand what they mean. They speak from a place of love and concern, and I appreciate that. But those words have made me stop and think.
As you already know, I am writing primarily about my journey with Matthew and our loss. As you read this, you can fill in his name with the name of someone you love and miss. Your relationship and your circumstances may be different, but perhaps some of these words will sound familiar.
Let me start by saying this: I am not lost.
I know who I am, and I know where I am.
Now, that does not mean I like where I am. I never wanted to be a father learning how to live without his son. This was not on my list of things to do, and I certainly would not have volunteered for it.
I do not understand everything about God’s plan. I have questions, and I am learning how to live with some answers I may never have on this side of Heaven. But I trust Him as I learn to cope with the loss of Matthew.
So why do we so often use the word lost when someone passes away?
Maybe it is how we describe emptiness. Maybe the routines we knew are gone, and we cannot picture what comes next. Those feelings are real, and I am not here to correct anyone’s vocabulary or tell another grieving parent how they should describe their pain.
I am simply trying to explain a distinction that has helped me.
Loss names something I have experienced.
“I am grieving the loss of my son.”
Lost can describe a condition or a feeling.
“I feel lost and don’t know where to turn.”
Those words are related, but they do not mean the same thing. And feeling lost in a moment of grief does not mean someone has lost their faith.
For me, the difference is this: I have experienced a tremendous loss, but I still know where to turn.
Grieving and Still Belonging to God
When I look at Scripture, I see faithful people experiencing devastating loss.
Job mourned his children. In the middle of that grief, he fell to the ground and worshiped God (Job 1:18–22). His worship did not mean the loss did not hurt. Later chapters make it very clear that Job had anguish and questions.
Jesus wept after Lazarus died (John 11:35).
That verse is short, but there is a lot of comfort in those two words. Jesus knew He was about to raise Lazarus, and He still wept.
Knowing what comes next did not keep Him from entering into the sorrow right in front of Him.
Psalm 34:18 tells us that the Lord is close to the brokenhearted.
I am thankful it does not say He waits for the brokenhearted to pull themselves together.
I do not have to hide my grief to prove that I trust God. My tears do not mean my faith has failed. And having a hard day does not erase everything I believe.
Matthew’s death has changed my life in ways I am still discovering, but it has not erased my relationship with God.
I can hurt and still belong to Him.
I can have questions and still trust Him.
I can miss Matthew every day and still know where to turn.
Romans 8:38–39 reminds us that neither death nor life can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.
That promise does not fill the empty chair. It does not replace the conversations I wish Matthew and I could still have. But it gives me something to hold on to when the ache is more than I know how to carry.
I am learning that faith and grief can exist in the same heart.
Trusting God does not require me to stop missing my son.
I miss having Matthew beside me, my co-pilot. I miss the conversations that didn’t need an occasion. We were just a dad and his son, going somewhere together. At the time, it was another part of our day. Now, I wish I could have another one of those ordinary days.
That is the part of loss that is hard to explain. I am thankful for the big memories, but I miss the everyday opportunity to be his dad with him right there beside me.
I still know where to turn. I just wish my co-pilot were here for the ride.
And Then There Is Grief
As I worked through the difference between loss and lost, another word kept showing up: grief.
Loss is what happened. Grief is what I am learning to live with because it happened.
That is how I would explain it in my own words.
I can read definitions and articles, and some of them help. But reading about grief and living with it are two very different things.
Losing a child goes against the order we expect. As parents, we plan to raise our children, watch them build their lives, and eventually have them bury us.
We do not plan to bury them.
There is no part of being a dad that prepares you for that.
I do not believe there will come a day when I decide I have missed Matthew long enough. I am learning how to carry the loss while continuing to live, love my family, work, laugh, and serve God.
Some days, those things fit together more easily than others.
And a happy moment does not mean the grief has gone away. I can enjoy something and still wish Matthew were there to enjoy it with us. Both can be true.
That is part of what I am beginning to understand: I do not have to choose between loving the life still in front of me and missing the son who is no longer here.
I can do both, even when it is hard.
What Luke Teaches Me About Being Lost
In the Gospel of Luke, the distinction between experiencing loss and being lost becomes clearer to me.
Luke tells the story of Jesus’ life, ministry, death, and resurrection. Throughout that account, we see His compassion for people others overlook, reject, or consider beyond help.
In Luke 15, tax collectors and sinners are gathering to hear Jesus. The Pharisees and scribes complain that He welcomes sinners and eats with them (Luke 15:1–2).
Jesus responds with three stories: a lost sheep, a lost coin, and a son who leaves home.
These stories are about repentance and restoration to God. They are not directly about the death of a loved one. But as I read them, they help me understand why my experience of loss does not mean I am spiritually lost.
The Lost Sheep — Luke 15:3–7
A shepherd has one hundred sheep, and one goes missing. He leaves the ninety-nine in the open country and searches for the missing sheep until he finds it. Then he carries it home on his shoulders and calls others to rejoice with him.
The shepherd has experienced a loss. The sheep is the one that is lost.
That distinction caught my attention.
The sheep’s absence does not make it less precious to the shepherd. He searches for it because it matters to him.
Jesus explains that there is joy in Heaven over one sinner who repents (Luke 15:7). His point reaches beyond a missing animal. He is showing the people listening how much an individual matters to God.
And when the shepherd finds the sheep, he carries it.
As a grieving father, I find comfort in that picture of care.
The Lost Coin — Luke 15:8–10
A woman has ten silver coins and loses one. She lights a lamp, sweeps her house, and searches carefully until she finds it. Then she invites her friends and neighbors to celebrate.
The woman has experienced a loss. The coin is lost.
The coin has not become worthless because it cannot be found. It still matters, and she searches carefully for it.
Jesus again connects the celebration to the joy over one sinner who repents (Luke 15:10).
Through both stories, He shows that those who are lost matter to God. They are worth seeking, and their restoration is worth celebrating.
The Lost Son — Luke 15:11–32
The third story moves from a sheep and a coin to a father and his son.
As you might imagine, that relationship gets my attention.
The younger son asks for his inheritance, leaves home, and squanders what he has been given. Eventually, hungry and desperate, he recognizes his situation and decides to return.
He prepares what he will say. He will confess his sin and ask to be treated as a hired servant.
But while he is still a long way off, his father sees him. Moved with compassion, the father runs to him, embraces him, and kisses him (Luke 15:20).
Before the son can finish explaining what he thinks he deserves, his father is already welcoming him home.
Later, when the older brother objects to the celebration, the father explains that his brother was dead and is alive, was lost and is found (Luke 15:32).
Here, being lost means more than being away from a location. The son has turned away from his father. His return brings reconciliation and celebration.
The father has experienced the pain of his son’s absence, but the son is the one described as lost.
I want to be careful here: Matthew’s death is not the same situation as the younger son leaving home. I am not trying to make those circumstances fit.
What helps me is the distinction.
The absence of someone I love does not mean I have become separated from God.
Why Does God Seek the Lost?
Across these stories, I see value, compassion, and the joy of restoration.
The sheep matters to the shepherd. The coin matters to the woman. The son remains deeply loved by his father, even after everything he has done.
Being lost does not mean being beyond God’s concern.
Jesus tells these stories to people who resent His welcome of sinners. He shows them why that welcome is cause for joy.
Later, in Luke 19, Jesus encounters Zacchaeus, a tax collector whom the crowd regards as a sinner. Jesus calls him by name and goes to his home. Zacchaeus responds with a commitment to generosity and restitution, and Jesus announces that salvation has come to his house (Luke 19:1–10).
Jesus explains that He came to seek and save the lost.
That is His mission: bringing people into a restored relationship with God.
That gives the word lost a spiritual meaning that is different from the sorrow I am experiencing as Matthew’s dad.
I am grieving the loss of my son. But I still belong to my Father.
When I Cannot See the Next Step
Now, before this sounds like I have everything figured out, let me clear that up.
I do not.
Knowing where to turn does not mean I always know what to do next. Trusting God does not mean I understand why this happened.
There are still moments of confusion, loneliness, and uncertainty.
Psalm 119:176 gives words to someone who acknowledges wandering like a lost sheep and asks God to seek him, while still remembering His commandments.
That reminds me that I can admit I need help. I do not have to pretend I have every part of my life under control.
Proverbs 3:5–6 calls me to trust God with all my heart instead of relying on my own understanding, acknowledging Him as He directs my path.
I need that reminder because my own understanding cannot make sense of losing Matthew.
I can ask why. I can go over everything again. But I cannot reason my way into making this okay.
I can still trust God with the next step.
Isaiah 30:21 describes God’s guidance with the words, “This is the way, walk in it.” In its setting, it is a promise to God’s people amid hardship and restoration. As I read it, I am reminded to listen for His direction when I cannot see the road ahead.
Psalm 25:16–17 brings loneliness and anguish directly to God.
That is a prayer I can understand.
Sometimes I need guidance. Sometimes I simply need to tell God how much it hurts.
Isaiah 41:10 speaks of His presence, strength, and help. First Peter 5:7 invites us to place our anxieties in His care because He cares for us.
These passages give me somewhere to bring what I am carrying. They remind me that I can ask for comfort, strength, and direction without having to explain away my grief first.
You Can Say His Name
There is something else I want to say, especially to those walking alongside our family.
Please accept that our loss might make you uncomfortable.
It makes us uncomfortable, too. There is nothing comfortable about learning how to live without Matthew.
It feels out of order. It is not the way we thought our family’s story would go.
Heck, I guess in a way our family has never been normal. But this is a kind of different we never wanted.
I understand that you may not know what to say. You may worry that mentioning Matthew will upset us or make us cry.
Speaking for myself, I would rather shed a few tears because you remembered him than have you feel you cannot say his name.
You are not reminding me that Matthew died. I already know that.
You are letting me know that you remember he lived.
There is a great deal of comfort in that.
Tell me the story. Share the memory. Tell me what made you think of him.
One of my favorite “Matthew” stories comes from a family trip to California.
Jennifer and I went to Pasadena for a few days and stayed at the Langham to enjoy a relaxing long weekend before heading to Disney. Mom and Dad kept the kids at home, then flew out with them to join us.
I had rented a convertible so Jennifer and I could have a little fun driving around the “City of Roses.” But when it was time to pick up the rest of the family at LAX, I traded the sports car for something with a little more room.
The minute Matthew walked outside the terminal and saw us, he said, “DAD! You got us a limousine?!”
And I answered, “Yes. Yes, I did.”
That “limousine” was a Chrysler Town & Country minivan.
A few years later, when the kids were a little older, we surprised them with a quick trip to Universal in Florida. This time, I reserved an actual limo to pick us up.
Matthew settled in and said, “This is the life.”
He finally got his limo
Those are the kinds of memories I want to keep sharing. Some will make us laugh. Some will bring tears. Sometimes, probably both in the same conversation.
If I cry, you do not have to fix it. You have not done something wrong. You have spoken about someone I love and miss.
And please do not feel like you need the perfect Bible verse or an explanation for why this happened. Scripture comforts me, but I do not expect you to make sense of something I cannot make sense of myself.
Sometimes your presence and a willingness to listen are enough.
I think of grief as the pendulum swing of love. That picture helps me understand why the ache can be so deep. It reaches into the places where someone was loved.
That does not mean we all grieve the same way, and tears are certainly not a measure of how much someone loved. But for me, the pain is connected to a relationship I would never trade away.
I would never choose to love Matthew less so that missing him would hurt less.
I am thankful I get to be his dad. I just wish I had gotten more time with him here.
Loss, Not Lost
So when someone tells me “You & Jennifer must feel lost without Matthew”, I understand the heart behind it.
And there may be moments when I feel unsure of my footing. There may be days when I cannot picture what comes next.
But I know who I belong to.
I have experienced the loss of Matthew. I am grieving. I am hurting. I miss my son.
And I am still God’s child.
He knows exactly where I am, including on the days when I have very little to say beyond, “Lord, this hurts.”
I do not have to understand the whole road to trust Him with the next step.
I am sharing what I am learning in the hope that it might help you through your own personal loss. Your story will look different from mine, but I hope these Scriptures and reflections give you something to lean on. Come back to them as often as you need to. I know I will.
And as always, please share this with someone who might need it. You never know who is quietly hurting or who needs a reminder that, even in their grief, God knows exactly where they are.
Loss, not lost.
